The Last Dwemer
by Apotheosus
Summary: In ancient times, a Dwemer named Chenzel is magically transported to modern-day Skyrim by an insane mage. There, he meets an Imperial Legate and a Nord known only as the Dragonborn...    Inspired by Druesling's "The Last Dwemer" mod from the Skyrim Nexus.
1. Chapter 1

_**The Last Dwemer**_

_The story of Chenze_l

* * *

><p>The floor was cold and hard. Chenzel, barely regaining consciousness, began to slowly lift himself off of it and up onto his feet. He wiped his eyes as his vision slowly became less blurry, and rubbed at his sore back. It had to be Loredas. Loredas was always the worst day of his week. And of all the days of the week, it had to be on Loredas that his father sent him to Aspurgir.<p>

Aspurgir was a curmudgeonly old Snow Elf who always looked like he had eaten some bad horker, but he was the finest alchemist and mage in Bzand-Thumz, and his father needed a cure for his skin problems. Damn Snow Elf. The way he had spoken of the Dwemer, of rebellion, he deserved punishment. Except he couldn't even do _that_, because before he could tell the Snow Elf how he really thought of him, he was blasted into unconsciousness. Stupid damn mage. His vision had cleared up, and he could finally stand up correctly, without his feet feeling like metal. Aspurgir was gone. "Damn Snow Elf must've run away after he knocked me out," said Chenzel.

"I wonder if there's a skin treatment I could… _borrow _from him while he's gone. It's not like _he_ ever used one." Chenzel chuckled, and looked around the room. But as he looked, his smile and chuckling dissipated. This… couldn't be the same room. The walls… the furniture… so _dusty_… He paused and sat down on one of the benches. The room's layout was the same as before he was knocked out; the table on the northern wall, the door to the bedroom on the eastern wall, the elevator to the west. But all the furniture, all the things that made a house a house or a shop a shop… gone. The southern exit to the rest of the city had been caved in with rocks and stone. The beds were nothing more than tatters of sackcloth, and the chairs dusty and without coverings. Scrap metal was piled around in corners and flung onto desks, and all the art and pottery was gone. "What in Oblivion happened…?" said Chenzel.

One thing he didn't notice before was the corpse bent over the table.

The very presence of the corpse gave him a violent shudder, and, after the initial shock, he walked over to investigate. Around his body were strange coins, made of gold and inscribed with a man's head. He picked one up and looked at it, curiously. He then carefully moved the head of the corpse towards himself, and he once again shuddered when he saw that this corpse was partially _mummified_. It was a man, for sure, with a long grey beard. He was clad in simple black robes, spattered with blood and having a large knife wound near the spine. He deduced that he had been studying when someone stabbed him from behind, with a shortsword or the like.

In moving the head, he also found the book the man must've been studying when he died. Actually, he thought, it was entirely possible that it wasn't a book for studying. It was handwritten, and there were writing implements around. Chenzel picked up the book and examined the writing. "Nordic," he said, with a grim certainty. "I should have guessed. Barbarians." He turned it around, keeping his hand on the inside to hold the page. The book's leather binding was inscribed on the front with "Gauldur Daakboj" He flipped back to the page it was open to. He attempted to glean some insight from the latest entry. He read the scrawled Nordic handwriting slowly: "I am… scared… sons… of mine… are trying… kill… me." He was no expert on Nordic, but his rudimentary translation told him that the man had nothing to do with him at all.

He noticed the various potions on the counter and put them in his bag. He took the coins as well, just in case. He then walked over to the elevator and pulled the lever. Its rusty gears ground to life and began to slowly lift the platform towards the surface. He sat on the platform and thought to himself. This was all very odd, after all. The tower was the same, but it looks as if it has been many years since anyone's been here. The elevator… the only way it would run this poorly is through years of disuse. What had that stupid wizard done?

The elevator finally reached the top of the shaft and ground to a halt, opening the brass grates before him. A torrent of dirt and gravel barreled into the elevator, filling most of the floor about two feet deep. Chenzel dug his feet out and ascended the dirt ramp that had formed, exiting at the base of a small tower. He brushed himself off a bit more and pushed open the doors.

Chenzel hadn't been to the surface much recently, so the cold wind that immediately whipped his face sent shivers down his body. He wouldn't be too cold anywhere else; his Dwemer armor protected him everywhere from the neck down. But his unshielded face would end up being very cold if he didn't find some way to warm it up.

He wandered aimlessly around the Dwemer tower for the better part of an hour, trying to determine which direction he should head. It was nearly dark; he needed a place to sleep, lest he be attacked by bandits or Nords or the like. He went back down to the tower, digging the lever out of the dirt and pulling it once again. When he had finally come back down, he pushed more debris out of the elevator, exited, and opened the bedroom door on the eastern wall. The bed was relatively intact, and he could probably keep warm if he took all the remaining cloth and bundled up in it. He stripped off his Dwemer armor and lay in the stone bed. If he could walk to somewhere like Nchuand-Zel, he could definitely ask about what happened. But that was at least a three days' journey from Bzand-Thumz, and he still hadn't found any food.

When he woke up, he grunted and rubbed his back. Still sore. He slowly put on his armor, which had become very cold overnight, and put his sword into the hilt on the waist. He ascended in the elevator again, pulling the rusty lever and grinding the machine's gears to life. Before heading out, he climbed the tower's stairs. The tables were covered in various mechanical parts; gyros, gears, and struts laid about. He opened the chest on the table and found an old Dwemer shortsword, which he gave a couple swings and a stab. He stuck it in his bag and continued searching.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw another book. Chenzel picked up the book and examined its spine. In the Nordic alphabet, as he read, it said "Chimarvidium". His eyes widened. Why would an old Dwemer folk tale be in the Nordic language? He opened to the title page and read, "Ancient… Stories… of the Dwemer." He wouldn't call Chimarvidium an ancient tale, but it was one of his favorite old bedtime stories. Chenzel flipped through the pages. Still Nordic… but recognizable as the Chimarvidium story. Curious. He put it in his bag and opened the balcony door, grinding as its hinges creaked open.

Looking out over the horizon, he saw the snowy mountains and familiar terrain of Dwemereth. How had so much changed, yet so little? Off in the distance, he saw a fire. Fire meant civilization. And if nothing else, then, civilization meant food. And after 16 hours without food, Chenzel was desperate to sate his appetite.

He exited the tower and walked across the ridge and down. A fox, completely ignoring him, ran by chasing a rabbit. Chenzel smiled, comforted at seeing another living thing on the barren, snowy landscape. Finally making it up the other side of the ridge, he could see the fire. It was a Nordic camp, a simple fire pit surrounded by rocks, which the Nords sat on. On the fire pit, however, were delicious hunks of rabbit and venison, roasting on a spit. Chenzel licked his chops. Snap out of it! Those Nords are invading your land! He shook his head and drew his sword.

Chenzel charged into the camp, shouting "FOR DWEMERETH!" The bandits were surprised and frightened at the bronze warrior sprinting to them, and gathered their swords. Three of the braver Nords ran at Chenzel and fought him. Chenzel slashed at them, making huge sweeping cuts in their fur armor. They fell to the ground, the fur on their armor dyed the color of their own blood. He then killed the remaining two Nords, who were attempting escape, running away like little girls. Sheathing his now-bloodied sword, he walked back, grabbing a hunk of roast rabbit from the spit, chewing it slowly. He had disciplined himself as all Dwemer had to enjoy food, not gobble it down like savage Nords. The juicy rabbit meat filled his mouth and made his whole body warm, and, for the first time since he had stepped outside, he couldn't notice the cold winds on his face.

After he had eaten his fill, he wandered forth. He crossed the nearby river and climbed the hill. It was nearly nightfall again, and he needed to find somewhere safe to sleep. He walked down the hill a ways, but stopped short. As he walked down the hill, torchlight became visible. More Nords? He crouched down and walked nearer.

These did not look like Nords. They were wearing fancy metal armor, and they spoke in a more sophisticated tongue. They intrigued him, and he came closer. Suddenly, one of the men turned around. The man stopped, and his brow furrowed. He whispered something to the other men. One of the officers, a man in a fancy steel helmet, pointed to Chenzel while speaking to the rest of the men. Chenzel became scared. He had obviously been found out, but he had no idea who these strange men were and why they weren't immediately attacking. The men advanced towards him, and he yelped and began to get up. The men ran to him and pinned him down, still examining him with curiosity.

He shouted at his captors. "Let go of me! What are you doing? Who are you? Release me, vile Nordic scum!"

* * *

><p>"Muuz chal kanthaln! Duum mthuz chend avatheland! Thuz bzamd? Chun muuz kanthaln, Akamora vakzand ngulz!"<p>

"Legate, do you have any idea what he's saying?"

"Not the slightest. I've been to all the Meri domains, and none of them speak anything like this." The mysterious elf had stopped thrashing about and looked at the men. The Legate turned to his captive and gestured to him, saying, "What do they call you?"

"Duz?"

"What is your name?"

The captive looked at him again quizzically, not knowing whether or not to treat this as an interrogation or a friendly question. The Legate thought for a moment and pointed to himself.

"My name is Antonius." He did this again, putting extra emphasis on himself. "Antonius." He then pointed to his captive, nodding his head to promote a response. The elf paused for a moment.

"Chenzel", he said, after a moment, "Chenzel Bthurzac."

"Well," said a nearby soldier, "We got a name. That's a start. What now?"

"Seeing as he's already got some armor and a blade, we could probably put him to use."

"Sir, are you crazy? For all we know, he could be a Stormcloak spy."

"A Stormcloak spy? Soldier, when have you EVER seen an elf in the Stormcloak Army?"

"But sir… maybe that's just it. Maybe they sent an elf as a spy so nobody would suspect him."

"I'll tell you now, soldier, the day the Stormcloaks help an elf is the day Oblivion freezes over. Got that? And just look at him. Confused, that's what he is. Not some damned Stormcloak spy. Let go of him." The soldiers obeyed. Chenzel sat up and rubbed his wrists.

The Legate turned to Chenzel and motioned to his sword. "Do you know how to fight?"

"Fe..feght?" He wasn't used to using such breathy language.

"Yes, fight… you know…" The Legate then held out his sword and held it, motioning it towards Chenzel. "Fight? With a blade?" He ran his hand along the blade of his sword as he said "blade".

"Ah," said Chenzel, as he pulled out his sword, "Feght?"

"Yes, yes! Good!" said the Legate. He crouched down and led him up to the top of the hill. "You see those soldiers? Down there?" He motioned with his fingers from his eyes to the Stormcloaks advancing through the valley." Chenzel nodded. Pointing to them, the Legate said, "We fight them."

Chenzel nodded and began to stand up, nearly exposing the soldiers's cover. "Ah, wait, no!" the Legate said, stopping Chenzel. "Wait," he said, motioning his palm to the ground. They came around down the slope until they were at the base of the hill.

"Wait for my signal."

As they waited, around the bend came the Stormcloaks, marching back to their camp, fully unaware of the Imperial soldiers waiting for them.

"CHARGE!" shouted the Legate, and his troops got up and attacked.

"Imperial scum…" muttered the Stormcloak captain, drawing his sword. The Imperals ran towards them, screaming "FOR THE EMPIRE!".

Meanwhile, Chenzel pushed into the middle of their number, slicing through their weak leather with ease. Only two minutes had passed before the last Stormcloak soldier fled from the scene. Chenzel chased after him, and knocked him out with the hilt of his sword. The poor man collapsed on the ground, bleeding profusely.

"By Akatosh…" exclaimed one of the legionnaires.

Chenzel returned to the legionnaires, sword held loosely in his hand. "Guht feght?" he asked, making many of the soldiers chuckle. Legate Antonius walked up to him. "Very good fight," he said, smiling. "Come with us. We'll make sure you have a place to sleep."

* * *

><p>Chenzel looked at the legionnaires, and nodded to show his agreement. He followed close behind them as they went back to camp, a foreigner amongst a group of strangers. He still understood little of these strange men. Atmorans were taller, usually, with lighter hair and skin, and a much more pronounced accent. Just as well, they spoke a language entirely different than the Nords, and wore ornate armor and clothing. And surely, if they were Nords, they would have killed him on sight! Now, the enemy men, the ones he had fought, they surely were Nords. Their physical features and accent were dead giveaways. Perhaps they were warring races of men? The way that the dark-haired men held themselves over the Nords reminded him of the way the High Elves held themselves over the Chimer and the Ayleids. So, these High Men, as he would call them, led him to his bedroll.<p>

They motioned to the tent. "Hic est lecto. Cura et requiescere paulisper." It sounded like they were ordering him, but he had no qualms about being able to finally sleep in a warm bed. "Placere, cibum accipere." They offered him some bread and cheese, and a half-bottle of ale. He took them, saying "Many thanks." The High Men looked at him, puzzled. Chenzel nodded and smiled, saying it again. "Many thanks to you, stranger." The men smiled back. "Dormire bene."

Chenzel walked to his tent and sat down at the chair outside, happily enjoying his meal. If these men were kind enough to let him have food and shelter, then surely they could lead him to a Dwemer city. He laid down to rest, belly full and body warm, and slept.

* * *

><p><strong>*Author's Note: I tried the best I could to simulate the language barrier by making it so that neither point of view can understand the other's directly. This will change as Chenzel learns "Cyrodiilic".<strong>

***Disclaimer: The backstory and inspiration come from a wonderful mod titled "The Last Dwemer" by Druesling. I don't claim to have invented Chenzel or his backstory, only what happens after. So, we're cool, ok? :)**


	2. Chapter 2

In the morning, the soldiers led him to Falkreath. They were headed there anyway, and the town was nice to foreigners. The Legate found himself enraptured with his new recruit as he walked on. He knew that he would probably not see Chenzel again, and was eager to learn his story. Who knows, maybe he's some famous general from Morrowind or something?

But what really twisted his mind was just that: where was he from? He's an elf, definitely, but not any like he'd seen. He had seen all the elves before; Altmer with their shiny, golden-yellow color, Dunmer with their ashen grey skin. Wood Elves, with their deep tan, and the Orsimer, with their dark green. But Chenzel… Chenzel had white skin. Actually, it could be described as some sort of very, very light green. The only elves that had white skin were the Falmer, descendants of the Snow Elves, and they were blind savages. Chenzel certainly wasn't a Falmer. But if so, then what could he be?

He then thought of the Dwarven armor he was wearing. And the way he had his hair knotted up. And of his beard, the way it was combed and held in place with ornate gold rings. Where had he seen a beard like that? He thought back, and remembered reading about the dwarves when he was a schoolboy. A certain image struck up in his mind; the drawing in one of the schoolbooks. His teacher read him a copy of Chimarvidium, an ancient Dwemer folk tale, as part of his ancient history lesson. The book contained a copy of an engraving, found in an old Dwemer ruin. It depicted a Dwemer warrior, sans helmet, fighting a group of Chimer.

That's when it struck him: the profile of that warrior matched almost exactly with Chenzel's. He looked over at Chenzel to make sure. By the eight, it did! His mind screamed. What if Chenzel is a descendant of the ancient Dwemer? His thoughts cooled down and he refocused on the road before him. Of course not, he thought. I'm just getting ahead of myself.

Late that Morndas evening, they stopped near Bard's Leap Summit to rest. Chenzel and the soldiers pitched their tents and laid their bedrolls. While they roasted some slaughterfish over the fire, Legate Antonius sat down next to Chenzel.

"Where are you from?" He tried his best to express 'place' with his hands. It didn't work too well. He began to say something, then stopped. He went to his pack and brought out a map of Skyrim.

"Where are you from?" he repeated, pointing to Chenzel and then to the map. Chenzel leaned over. He studied the map for a moment, attempting to recognize landmarks. After slightly less than a minute, he pointed near Reachwind Eyrie and said "Bzand-Thumz. Det."

The Legate was a bit confused at first. Reachwind Eyrie? Reachcliff Cave? That whole area had nothing in it. Just a bunch of caves and bandits. And Chenzel didn't look like a bandit.

Legate Antonius then pointed to Markarth. "Where is that?"

Chenzel could vaguely understand his meaning and said, "Nchuand-Zel."

Where had he heard Nchuand-Zel before?

* * *

><p>The troops marched on towards Falkreath. Once the whole battalion had made it, they would be able to use it as a base of operations while they waited for orders from Solitude. General Tullius had sent word to the Legate earlier that he would be taking a "break" to stay in Helgen for an execution. And when Tullius takes a break to go to an execution, it has to be important. So he told them to wait in Falkreath until word comes back from Helgen. Unfortunately, they were running a bit late from their encounters with the returning Stormcloaks around the valley, so they were trying to make the best time they could.<p>

On Tirdas, they were just outside of Falkreath when a guard stopped them.

"Hey! What're you doing here?" He sounded more concerned than anything.

"We're crossing into Falkreath," said the Legate, "We're awaiting word from Helgen."

"Helgen? Haven't you heard? It burned down. Whole town, gone."

"What? Why? Is General Tullius…?"

"General Tullius escaped. So did Ulfric Stormcloak, I believe. They say a dragon swooped in and…"

"Ulfric? A dragon? What… what in Oblivion was Tullius doing…?"

"That's what I heard, anyway. Wouldn't recommend going into town. Everyone evacuated to Whiterun Hold while the dragon's about."

"I…I'll go anyway. I haven't had good mead or a good night's sleep in over a month."  
>"Suit yourself, then. The inn's still open, if lodging's what you're looking for. And watch the skies. Never know when that damn dragon'll swoop down again."<p>

* * *

><p>Chenzel's feet felt like lead again as he entered the Nord town. Such primitive architecture… wood and straw were all the buildings were made of. So easily burnt. But… where were the people? A few Nords here and there… probably guards, considering the uniform. But no townspeople. The captain of the High Men was leading them to a large building. Was this where the people were? Strange that they wouldn't be outside. Shouldn't Nords be out doing something during the day? Planting crops? Burning villages? Drinking… ale?<p>

They entered the building. There were three people here: A dark-haired woman, A half-elf bard, and a Nord woman. The captain said something to the woman behind the counter. She brought out something in bottles and some venison. The bard struck up some song in the background, and the soldiers relaxed and ate. He sat down as well, next to the captain.

The captain turned to him. "Quomodo facis?" he said. Chenzel's stomach growled. He desperately wanted some venison, maybe some of that… mead… or whatever it was. He remembered the captain giving some gold coins to the woman at the bar for the food. Then Chenzel got an idea. He pointed to the venison on the table.

"What is this called?" he asked. The captain paused for a moment.

"Venison," replied the captain. "Vis aliqua?"

Chenzel pulled out one of the coins from his bag and showed it to the captain.

"Ah! Septim habes!"

"How many to buy this?" He pointed to the venison, and to the barkeeper.

"Ostendere mihi septimes." The captain pointed to his bag. Chenzel pulled out the purse he had found in the old tower, and dumped the coins carefully onto the table. The captain picked out fifteen coins and put them in a stack.

"What should I say?" He made a motion with his hand going away from his mouth. Chenzel momentarily realized he would have to become an expert in gestures if he was to communicate.

The captain cleared his throat. "I would like…" he paused. Chenzel took this to mean he wanted him to repeat. "I… would like…"

"…to buy…"

"…to buy…" he repeated.

"…some venison."

"…some venison. I would like to buy some venison."

"Good! Very good. Nunc ut ipsum." He pointed to the woman again.

Chenzel got up and walked over to the woman and, tentatively, began to recite.

"I would like… to… buy some venison."

"Quindecim septimes." She held out her hand. Chenzel put the stack of gold in her hand, and she gave him a hunk of venison from the rack on the wall.

"Thank you," he said. The bartender woman looked at him, with an air of confusion, and went back to cleaning the counter.

"Great job," said the captain, and patted the Dwemer on the back.

* * *

><p>The mysterious elf began to enjoy his hunk of venison with great gusto. The Legate had become quite fond of him, and it seemed Chenzel was grateful for the brief language lesson he had been given. But the Legate wanted to know more. Why was the elf so curious about them? Why had he been wandering around their camp? And more so, where did he come from, anyway?<p>

"Would you like to… talk… with us?" he asked, making the 'talking' motion Chenzel had towards the rest of the group. Chenzel nodded vigorously. "Anum valz."

'Well then,' thought the Legate, 'I've got some work to do while we wait for more word.'

* * *

><p><strong>*Author's Note: Sorry for the delay, to make up for it, I'm posting next chapter right away. This is pretty much the last of any language-based issues between characters, so no more hand motions and perspective shifts for the time being. Also, I want to make it clear early on that there will be NO SHIPPING between Chenzel and Antonius. Or any other same-sex main characters.<strong>

***Disclaimer: The backstory and inspiration come from a wonderful mod titled "The Last Dwemer" by Druesling. I don't claim to have invented Chenzel or his backstory, only what happens after. So, we're cool, ok? :)**


	3. Chapter 3

**ANTONIUS' JOURNAL**

20 First Seed

Tullius finally sent word back. Good to see the magnificent bastard didn't burn alive at Helgen. He said that, for now, Imperial soldiers should stay near the cities, guard them perhaps. I'm totally fine with kicking back and _not_ subjecting myself to more Stormcloak battalions. Most of my soldiers signed up for guard duty, and around ten of them headed to the nearby encampment. Good men.

Chenzel's fitting in fine, with the exception of his ability to communicate. I've decided I'll give him lessons on how to speak Cyrodiilic, so that he can make his living in the world. He hasn't shown any further interest in going anywhere particular, so I'm assuming he'll be fine staying here at the inn for a few months. I made a deal with Valga, and Chenzel and I can stay in the inn for only 20 septims a month if we help clean dishes and restock the mead and whatnot. I'd say it's a fair bargain. Chenzel managed to get himself some extra coin working at the local smithy, and he's doing a damn fine job if I do say so myself. If he ever joins the legion, perhaps he can smith us some weapons. Gods know we need it.

7 Rain's Hand

After almost three weeks without having anything to do with my soldiers, I honestly don't know if I'll see them again. Frankly, I'm done with this bloody war. I don't give a damn about who takes Skyrim, I'd much rather settle down and be done with it. So, next Morndas, I'm promoting Skulnar to Legate. He's provided great knowledge in battles for me, and his undying loyalty to the Empire and its people make him a better candidate to lead than I.

Meanwhile, Chenzel's lessons are going well. He's able to go to market and buy his own food and materials without looking like he's reciting a script. The fact that nobody really cares about his skin color or race is good; I'd rather find out for myself before anyone else makes a jab at it. Interestingly enough, he's also completely unaware of current events. In fact, he doesn't know anything about history _at all_. Honestly, if I'm willing to commit this much time to this elf, I might as well become his full-time tutor or something.

29 Rain's Hand

I figure I might as well stick something else in this journal, wouldn't want it to go to waste. Of course, I _would_ have more reason to, except _nothing happens around here_. Aside from some missing dog and a general shortage of lumber, I haven't heard any interesting news in over three weeks. Not that I want to go back to the legion, of course, but I've been occupying most of my days by teaching Chenzel, working around the inn, and trying to figure out who he is. Tends to lead to a rather uninteresting life. Valga's been making some comments about me going soft, retiring from the army to teach an illiterate elf. Long story short, I made it clear to her that I hadn't gone soft.

Chenzel can hold a conversation fairly well, but I'm reluctant to ask him openly about why he happened upon us and where he came from. Honestly, the way he looks sometimes, sulking around the inn, sometimes I think I don't want to know.

17 Second Seed

It's been three months since the Helgen incident. Just as well, that means it's been three months since they came to Falkreath, and three months since dragons started appearing. Just the other day, a dragon appeared outside of the city. He was over on a hill, circling a giant. The giant did well at defending, but died in the end. The dragon would've come this way had it not been for some mysterious man who showed up, a warrior in steel armor, yelling at it and slashing away at its scales. All the townspeople watched as he defeated it.

But after he defeated it,_ that_ was when it got interesting. Something came out of the dragon, I don't know if it was its soul or what, but the man _absorbed _it. As in, it got sucked up into him. Very strange. He came by the other day and rented out one of the rooms here at the Dead Man's Drink. He was definitely a man, but I was uncertain about if he was a Nord or not. His hair was covered by his helmet, but I'm pretty sure it was brown or something. He spoke in a sort of dampened Nordic accent that's characteristic of either a Nord who's spent too much time in Cyrodiil or an Imperial who's spent too much time in Skyrim. He was nice, though. The bard got his first request in a while, which was good. Anyone who asks for "The Age of Aggression" is alright in my book.

I think I'm going to ask Chenzel about his past tomorrow. Just as it's been three months since the dragons attacked, it's been three months since Chenzel appeared. Honestly, I can't help but think that they're somehow related. Come to think of it, it's kind of a blessing, too. With Chenzel around, I have something I genuinely want to do. I treat him almost as my son. He's young enough to be my son, and I teach him about language and recent history and all that. The thing is, he never asks any questions back. Which is why I need to ask him personally why he showed up that night. I've cared for him too long to not know about his past.

* * *

><p>Chenzel got up out of bed. He'd been in this town for over three months now, and that meant it had been three months since he'd… appeared…here. If he ever saw Aspurgir again, his hands would be around that Snow Elf's scrawny little throat before he could say "oops". He knew the year, 4E 201, but he had no idea what that would be in the Dwemeri calendar, nor did he know where any of his Dwemer brethren were. As a matter of fact, the Chimer and Snow Elves were gone, too. The occasional High Elf would pass through, and a strange race of Dark Elves was present as well. They apparently came from Morrowind, which was located where old Resdayn was, so perhaps they're variants of the Chimer. He could read Cyrodiilic, but many historical books were written in Nordic. The few that weren't were mostly about military and political events in Cyrodiil or the like. Strangely, none of them made any mention of his brethren, or of any Dwemer cities. So, over the past few months, he had drawn the conclusion that he had been teleported to the future somehow. That would be the only explanation for all this… change. The world was very different. And he finally felt he had the courage and language skills now to ask Antonius about it.<p>

Chenzel sat down at the bench as he had done so many times, waiting for Antonius to show up with his papers, for another lesson. He felt much like a Dwemer schoolboy, waiting for his lessons. He was very much a Dwemer schoolboy, actually. He was only 20, and, on the day he was sent here, it was the first day of his adult life. Of course, he looked slightly older, due to the Dwemer maturing at a slightly faster rate. But, throughout their lives, the Dwemer learn constantly. After all, the only way to understand the world is to learn more about it.

Antonius, however, was not as eager to meet with Chenzel. He had paced in his room for around an hour before finally making up his mind. He sat down next to Chenzel.

"Alright… are you…ready for today's lesson?"

"Actually, I had a question that I would like to ask you first."

"Er, actually… I… had a question to ask you, too. I think it might be best if we speak in… private." Chenzel's eyebrows arched even more than they naturally did. In private…?

* * *

><p>The door to Antonius' room was shut and locked, and Antonius sat on the bed. Chenzel took a seat from the table and pulled it up.<p>

"Chenzel… I've withheld asking you this question for as long as I could, but it's been nagging my mind for weeks. I've taught and cared for you for over 3 months, and I don't even know who you are… where you came from… I don't even know what _race_ you are."

Chenzel paused for a moment. 'Well,' he thought, 'here goes nothing.' He cleared his throat.

"I've actually come to a realization recently," he said. "I think my people don't _exist _anymore. In fact, nothing of anything from where I came from. What do your people call the… Deep Elves?"

"The Deep Elves… the _Dwemer_…? But they disappeared, thousands of years ago. Surely, you're not saying…"

"By Aftand's beard… it's true…" Chenzel paused, and began to weep, quietly, into his hands. "The lot of them… my _people_… gone."

'So you _are _a Dwemer…' thought Antonius. Actually, although he didn't realize it, he quietly said it to himself as well. Chenzel sniffled, wiping his eyes with a rag from the table.

"Yes, I am a Dwemer," he said, responding to Antonius' remark. "I was born in Bzand-Thumz, 87th year of the ninth cycle. I… I had left my home to bring medicine for my father, when a vile Snow Elf blasted me here, to this… future, I take it."

Antonius rubbed his brow. This was… astonishing, to say the least. The last living Dwemer! He had heard of one before… in Morrowind… but he and so many others perished when the Red Mountain erupted.

Chenzel had calmed down and regained the expressionless look he usually wore. But, in his eyes, Antonius could still detect deep sorrow. How painful, he thought, to lose one's whole race… to have nobody to share an identity with.

Chenzel looked up. "I… can you tell me what happened? At all?"

Antonius rubbed his chin. He hadn't really expected to have to explain this to him. Of course, he knew some about it, but not as much as a scholar… Calcelmo would know, definitely. He would take Chenzel to Calcelmo as soon as possible.

"Chenzel…" he said, with as much compassion as he could muster. "All I know is that thousands and thousands of years ago, there was a great battle. And at the end of that battle, they discovered that no Dwemer existed anymore. Anywhere. Vanished."

"That's it? Just… _vanished_?"

"I barely know anything about it. Actually, you can see Dwemer ruins here and there, too. None of them have anything in it besides scrap metal and automatons. No bodies. Nothing."

"So… what if they just… went away? I could find them… I could look-"

"Don't get ahead of yourself. Before we do anything of the sort, I know a man who has devoted his life to your culture. He lives in Markarth. I'll bet if we get a move on, we could make it there before Mid Year. Easily."

Chenzel smiled weakly. "When should we leave, then?"

"I'd say we get a good night's rest tonight and leave early tomorrow morning."

"Thank you, friend. You don't know how much this means to me."

Antonius unlocked the door and Chenzel went across the inn to his room. "What have I gotten myself into?" chuckled Antonius as he closed his door and climbed into bed.

* * *

><p><strong>*Author's Note: Once again, no Antonius-Chenzel romance. As much as it may seem so here. In the next chapter, expect some epic adventure time and a special appearance by Mr. Dovahkiin himself...<strong>

***Disclaimer: The backstory and inspiration come from a wonderful mod titled "The Last Dwemer" by Druesling. I don't claim to have invented Chenzel or his backstory, only what happens after.**


	4. Chapter 4

The air was filled with a dense, cool mist. Antonius loved the mist. He sat on the porch of the Dead Man's Drink, waiting for Chenzel to be ready. He felt strangely comfortable, wearing his old Imperial armor. 'Maybe someday I'll come back to the army,' he thought. Maybe assist Tullius up at Castle Dour. Besides, he's not really doing anything up there as it is. In the whole last three months since Ulfric reformed his army, Tullius's enemy death total has risen about as high as an overencumbered pigeon.

Chenzel stepped outside, feeling the morning dew in the air. He had experienced a feeling like this before; the unique, musty scent you find when waking up in an underground city. Of course, it was nothing exactly like this. This was so much… crisper. Cleaner, even.

"Ready to set off, then?"

Antonius chuckled. "Ready as I'll ever be." His voice still retained the slight raspiness it had acquired from his time in the legion.

They began walking out the southern exit of Falkreath. At this early an hour, the sun had barely come up, and nobody was out, save for the guards. The crisp air and the scent of pine needles gave the duo a refreshed feeling.

But soon, along the path, they couldn't help feeling like someone- or some_thing-_ was watching them. The two walked up a steep hill, overlooking a gorge on its right side. A cart was found toppled over near them. They walked to investigate, they heard rustling behind them. Suddenly, three bandits jumped down from the cliffside. Chenzel and Antonius pulled out their swords and prepared for a fight. The bandits had the element of surprise to back them, and the two were outnumbered. Antonius began slashing at the woman bandit.

"You won't leave here alive!" shouted the bandit.

Antonius finished her off, stabbing her in the chest and pushing her off the hillside. But then, while he was watching her body tumble down the hillside, a male bandit sneaked up behind him and stabbed him in the side of his back. Antonius collapsed on the ground, breathing heavily and wincing as he held his side.

"Antonius!" exclaimed Chenzel. He had been dealing with a bandit of his own, but he ran over to Antonius, slicing the neck of the bandit, who moments later would've finished off Antonius. But as he was trying to help Antonius up, the bandit Chenzel had been fighting recovered and smacked Chenzel with the butt of his battleaxe. Chenzel fell over next to Antonius, looking up at the bandit. He had insanity in his eyes, and he smirked as he raised his battleaxe to finish them…

*thwip*

*CRACK*

The bandit flew back, over the hill, an arrow piercing his skull.

Chenzel and Antonius looked at each other, and then behind them. Nobody was around. Chenzel stumbled to his feet, and held his hand out to Antonius, who helped himself up. On the cliffside opposite, a man in steel sheathed his bow and jumped down.

Antonius cocked his head. This was the man from before; the dragon-slayer! He must've left around the same time. Or… was he following us?

The warrior removed his helmet. He had light brown hair, and the characteristics of a Nord, but with higher cheekbones and a less pronounced jaw. A scar paved its way across his left cheek.

Antonius addressed the man. "Sir, you've just saved our lives. I can't thank you enough. What's your name, son?"

The Nord held out his hand. "They just call me the Dragonborn. Nice to meet you." Antonius shook his hand. "I saw you two leaving early today," he continued. "I couldn't help but follow. After all, it's not often an Imperial captain and an elf in Dwarven armor leave together. What're y'all doing so early?"

Antonius hesitated to tell him exactly why they were leaving. "We're headed to Markarth."

"Markarth? Sounds about right, considering your friend here." He turned to Chenzel. "That's some fine armor you got there, by the way."

Chenzel smiled. "Thank you. I made it myself."

"Your accent… I haven't heard any like it. Where are you from?"

Antonius butted in. "He's a foreigner. While we're on the subject, where are you from? I haven't seen a Nord quite like you in a while."

"Ah. That's kind of hard to say. I'm a Nord, yes, but my pa was a… sort of half-Imperial, half Breton lot. Grew up in Cyrodiil. Told me plenty of interesting folktales and stories. I could tell you some, if you like… what do you say I accompany you to Markarth? Road's dangerous during these troubled times."

Antonius looked at Chenzel, and Chenzel looked back at Antonius. Considering the nature of their business, it would be awkward telling him their full story. But, anyone who could handle taking down a dragon singlehandedly would be quite invaluable along the road. Who knows how many dragons are about during these times?

"Sure. It would be an honor having you in our little group."

The Dragonborn smiled. "I won't let you down, then. Come on, we've got a lot of ground to cover."

So their unlikely group, a retired Imperial Legate, an ancient Dwarven warrior, and a Nordic Dragonslayer, walked down the road to Markarth.

"So," said the Dragonborn, "What's your guys' story? Not to intrude, and all, but you two seem like an odd group to be traveling together."

"Well, where to start…" said Antonius, trailing off. How would he explain this? "I was stationed in the Reach. Keeping out the Stormcloaks and whatnot. Then this guy showed up. Sneaking around camp. Some people thought he was a Stormcloak spy, but he just looked… confused. Nobody knows where he came from. So I took him in and taught him how to speak, and write, even a bit of history. We set off to Markarth today to… ah… seek out his family."

"Ah, so you're an orphan, eh?" said the Dragonborn. "I know the feeling. You know the reason why I'm still in Skyrim now? Got caught trying to jump the border to Cyrodiil. Soldiers thought I was a Stormcloak sympathizer. Took away everything I had, carted me off to Helgen. I would be dead right now had it not been for that dragon that showed up."

"Dragon? You were there… at the execution! I heard Ulfric Stormcloak was there, too. And General Tullius. What was it like… witnessing the first dragon attack in… thousands of years?"

"It was horrible. My neck was on the chopping block. Headsman was just about to bring the axe down when the dragon started burning everything. I barely made it out alive. Hadvar, an Imperial soldier… he helped me escape through the keep. I went back to the city later… but nothing was left. It's just a bandit-hole now."

Antonius sighed. Sad, the way the world is now. Civil war, dragons... whole world gone to shit.

"Cheer, up, eh? We've got a long way to go, no use in sulking the rest of the way."

"I guess you're right," Antonius said. "Say, how exactly did you go from war prisoner to dragon-slayer, anyway?"

"Oh, well that, _that_'s a good story. As soon as I got out of Helgen…"

The Dragonborn's stories lightened their steps all the way to Markarth, and as Antonius put it, he had never felt happier to be trudging along the road again.

* * *

><p>HUZZAH! I'm not dead yet. Thankfully, my laptop's battery was replaced so that I could get my story back.<p>

Unfortunately, I'm not going to be posting chapter updates as frequently. For one thing, I'm not playing Skyrim anymore, so I'm not as actively inspired at the moment. Secondly, I'm also in the process of writing another story, creating the background for yet another one, as well as programming a text-adventure game.

Ultimately, that all leads to a lot of typing, a lot of time, and a little carpal tunnel syndrome. However, I'll try not to wait three weeks before uploading the next chapter. You can guess where they end up next: the city of stone itself, Markarth. And a nice encounter with the resident Dwemer fanatic, Calcelmo.


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